Джон Кэмпбелл - Frozen Hell

Amundsen-Scott South Pole Station

Antarctica

Welcome to Hell, Jason Cosgrove thought.

A biting late-summer wind swept across the Antarctic Plain and hissed through the buildings of the Amundsen-Scott South Pole Station. According to the pilot of the airplane that had just dropped him off, local temperature was a balmy 12° Fahrenheit. Jason already felt a chill penetrating his coat, sweatshirt, and T-shirt. Three layers weren’t nearly enough.

Around him, the wind made a faint, whispery sound somewhere between the screech of fingernails on slate and the hiss of snake-scales on glass, broken only by an occasional shout from the direction of the plane. Twelve different national flags, planted in front of the station’s main building, snapped and cracked like whips. A few stray snowflakes swirled down from a leaden sky.

Jason dropped his two overstuffed satchels onto hard-packed snow, turned from the Basler BT-67 that had shuttled him here from Christchurch, via McMurdo Station, and stared out across what seemed an endless expanse of white. Only a lone black windsock and what looked like a couple of distant storage sheds broke the unending white of the landscape. An old joke popped into his head: What’s white and white and white? A polar bear eating ice cream in a snowstorm.

He snorted and rubbed his eyes. Too long without sleep. He hadn’t even gotten the usual layover in Christchurch. Now he was getting punchy.

A thousand miles of ice-desert stretched in every direction. Pictures online didn’t prepare you for it. The huge, unending bleakness of it all. Even the sky seemed faded and dull by New York standards. The true ass-end of the Earth.

Shouldn’t there have been someone waiting to meet him? He glanced back at the sleek mid-sized plane that had disgorged him minutes before. Its props still turned with a steady whump-whump-whump , as men and women in parkas bustled around the open door in its side. Supplies out, baggage in. And people. There had to be thirty-five or forty scientists and researchers waiting to board. Going back to civilization before the six-month-long Antarctic night overtook the Amundsen-Scott Station. He alone had gotten off.

He turned toward the low sun, white as the snow and dazzling without the haze of pollution to filter it. Only a few more days until the sun dipped below the horizon, dropping the temperature and cutting off all the Antarctic bases from the outside world until spring.

“Dr. Cosgrove?” a man’s voice called from his right.

Jason turned, eyebrows rising. “Here!” he called.

A tall, stocky man with a scraggly black beard jogged toward him. Unruly curls stuck out from under a green stocking cap, and he wore a puffy red coat zipped to the neck. He thrust out a gloved hand, which Jason took. The fellow had a crushing grip.

“I am Milos Pappas.” He pronounced it MEE-los PAH-pahs . His breath puffed visibly in the air. “I am the chief greeter for the station, and also dinner cook. Very pleased to meet you, Doctor,” he said.

“Call me Jase,” Jason said. Everyone did.

“Jase, yes. I trust your journey was good?”

Jason tried to laugh, but the sound came out like a crazy bark. He bit it off.

“No,” he said, “everything was horrible. I hate to fly, and I’m here under protest. I’ve had maybe two hours of sleep in the last three days. I’ve been bullied into this, and—”

Milos raised his hands. “Not me! I am—how you say—only the messager?”

“Messenger. Sorry.” Jason took a deep breath and looked away. Hold it together. Just a few more minutes… “I don’t like having to run to Antarctica to fight for my grant money.”

“Fight?”

“I was told the funding for my research project might be pulled if I didn’t get here within 36 hours to argue my case. Twenty million dollars for Asteroid Belt mining, gone—like that!” He snapped his fingers. “And no explanation why.”

Milos shook his head. “Yes, the newcomers, they are—what is your word? Intense?”

“The newcomers?”

He nodded. “They do not wear uniforms, but we know they are American military, all very top-secret hush-hush. They are here for maybe two months. Why the secrecy? I do not know, but all make guesses. One guess, it says they are excited for a meteor in the ice. Another guess, it says they are finding vast new oil fields. Me? I cook the food. Too many questions get you only trouble.”

“Or save your life,” Jase said.

Milos considered, then shrugged. His gaze dropped to the bags at Jason’s feet. “This is all you are bringing?”

“I didn’t have much time to pack.”

“I shall help you get the right stuff later. Plenty of everything, with the main season over. But first, the big-dog newcomers wait for you.” He grabbed both bags, turned, and lumbered for the main building. “This way, my friend!”

Jason found himself hustled through a series of hallways. It might be the end of the research season, but the base still hummed with activity. He passed rooms full of people and equipment of every variety imaginable, a cafeteria with a dozen tables, and an empty rec-room with a ping pong table, a pool table, and a jukebox. At last they reached a small conference room. There, two men with laptops worked side by side. They broke off their discussion as Milos swept in and dropped Jason’s bags in a corner.

When the man on the right stood, Jason recognized him—Colonel Franklin Bloch. With his hawk nose, steel-gray hair, and coolly aloof gaze, Bloch made a lasting impression. He had been the one who Skyped Jason, informing him that his funding was under review and would likely be cut off if he didn’t drop everything and get to Antarctica on the next plane. Or series of five planes, as it turned out.

The other man was of Asian descent—Chinese, Jase guessed, from his high cheek bones—and wore thick glasses with black plastic frames. His shaved head made guessing his age difficult, but he had the look of a man who had seen a lot of action over the years. He had also been on that video call. He hadn’t spoken a word, though, just studied Jase across the video link like a shark picking out its next meal.

“A pleasure to meet you in person, Dr. Cosgrove.” Giving a forced smile, Bloch came around the table and extended his hand.

Jase shook it, and found it disturbingly limp and moist, like shaking hands with a mushroom. He had to make a conscious effort not to wipe his palm off on his pants.

“I’m here. What’s this about my funding?”

“Sit down, Jase,” Milos said cheerfully. “I shall get you coffee?”

Jase glanced over, hesitated, then nodded. He could use the caffeine. “Thanks. Black, please.”

Milos glanced at the other two. “For you also?”

Both shook their heads. Milos headed for a Keurig machine on a table against the wall and began pushing buttons and fumbling with k-cups and mugs.

Bloch said, “This is Artemis Wu. He’s chairman of the Armed Forces Research Grants Committee.”

“But I thought everything was settled,” Jason said, looking at Wu. “My project was approved and funded six months ago. Why make me drop everything and rush out here?”

“Two reasons,” Wu said, “First, I require the services of the premiere metallurgist in the world. Second, time is a factor. The weather is about to change, and I needed you here before it does.”

Jason snorted. “If you want the best metallurgist in the world, you picked the wrong guy. You want Nick Armstrong—”

“Dr. Armstrong died five days ago,” Bloch cut in.

Jason stared at him. “That’s not possible. He’s barely 40—”